


Cards on the Table

by drinktea



Series: we're all a little magic here [3]
Category: Now You See Me (Movies)
Genre: Drama, F/M, Innuendo, Romance, Timeskips, danny pov, rated for language, will they or won't they
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-08-19 14:30:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8211970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinktea/pseuds/drinktea
Summary: As she turns her back to him and walks off, he swears he sees a series of phantom images splayed across her figure—her walking away from him a dozen times.
And not one of those times does he go after her—because he's shy, because he's a coward, because he has too much pride—but mostly because he's a traitor of his own heart.
-
(Danny, Henley and a history of heartbreak.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> 04/10/2016: Switching gears from bromance to romance—let's do this! Once I got started this basically wrote itself. This story fills in the gaps between and around the first two movies. As with the previous two entries to this series, this story may be read independently, but for some extra context I'd recommend reading the series in its entirety. How To Get Caught In, Then Escape A Series Of Traps, in particular, details the events leading up to one of the scenes in this story.
> 
> Danny's POV was a fun challenge. He's always been the hardest to pin down as a character for me, especially romantically since he strikes me as the type to be extremely guarded. (Fun fact: I listened to Cry by Carly Rae Jepsen for a large portion of writing this, and I think the chorus is Danny to a T.) Danny and Henley's chemistry was crazy fun to write! Now, read on, and I hope you enjoy!

**♠**

 

**1.**

Her voice has become shrill, pitched-high from the effort of arguing with him for the past fifteen minutes. She makes her way through their storage, weaving around boxes and costumes and props. "Oh my God, could you _be_ anymore of a condescending asshole?" she throws back.

He's not too insulted. After all, this is far from the first time that someone has called him an asshole. Though, it might be the first time he's heard it from her—"As a matter of fact, I _could_. I could tell you that my West Coast shows went fine. And why did they go fine? Because Rebecca listened to me, verbatim."

She turns on him, which forces him to stop short. He nearly loses his balance and goes tumbling into a rack of costumes. As it is, he stumbles, then regains his balance with a smooth swipe of his hand over his suit—and all in front of her, cool as a cucumber.

She sharpens her gaze and crosses her arms. She's out of costume now, clad in workout gear—she goes to the gym after every show. "You should fly Rebecca out here then, do all your big, important shows with _her_ ," she snaps.

He puts his hands up— _I surrender_. "Now, now, Henley. Let's not say anything we'll regret."

Instead of letting him placate her, she doubles down. "No, really. I'm sick of your criticism, Danny. I don't need this."

Abruptly, he feels the mood in the room shift. But because he's always played it safe—because everything is calculated, even if it's a risk—he says, "What do you mean?"

She heaves a sigh, then uncrosses her arms. Her ponytail bobs a bit, her hair flaring out behind her. "I wasn't going to tell you this until we finished touring. But I'm quitting."

He feels his heart skip a beat. "You're— _what_?"

"I'm leaving, Danny. Right after the last show in Chicago," she says again (and he flinches again). "I'm starting my own show."

He doesn't know what to comment on first: Chicago or leaving or _her own show_. So of course he goes for the coldest, rudest, most incredulous response—all the better to shrink back, protect himself—"Your own show? Come on, Henley."

She huffs in frustration. She raises a hand and makes a vague gesture in his direction. "See? _That's_ what I mean. You're such a condescending jerk."

He puts up his hands again— _hey, we're all friends here_. "I didn't mean—I mean, you're good, Henley. But what'll you do? Where are your resources? Maybe you should hold off on this for a little while."

She just shakes her head like he'll never understand. Then she looks him right in the eye and he _feels_ her disappointment permeate the air. When she finally says something, she sounds tired and resigned. "You know what, Danny? I thought we could leave things on a good note. I hope we still can." She turns around, gym bag swinging from her shoulder. "See you tomorrow night."

And as she walks off, he swears he sees phantom images splayed across her figure—her walking away from him a dozen times.

And not one of those times does he go after her—because he's shy, because he's a coward, because he has too much pride—but mostly because he's a traitor of his own heart.

 

 

♠

 

**2.**

He makes Chicago his home base. And before you say anything, it's not because it's the last place he saw Henley.

What? It's not.

But now that he's thinking of her, he can't stop.

It's been a year since she left, and he's been keeping tabs on her, just looking her up now and again. She started moving west almost immediately, hitting the major cities: Des Moines, Denver, Santa Fe, Phoenix, Salt Lake City. Her sponsor turned out to be an independent businessman, a big guy who's pretty muscular-looking from his pictures, and okay, passably attractive—if you like tall, tan guys with high cheekbones. Whatever. Anyway, the important thing is that Henley is now an escape artist.

_An escape artist_.

_Ha_ , he laughs to himself silently, like this is the biggest joke on the face of the planet, _an escape artist. Figures_. She just couldn't wait to run away from him. In hindsight, it makes so much fucking sense.

"Are you okay?"

He looks up at the blonde girl seated in his lap, almost forgetting where he is. He clears his throat. "Yes. Yes, I'm fine," he reassures her, rubbing the small of her back.

She presses closer to him in response, nuzzling his neck. "Then, wanna show me some magic?" she delivers (and it's not like he hasn't heard that a million times before. He rolls his eyes). Her breath washes down his neck, hot and sticky.

Not for the first time (and probably not the last, either), he suddenly feels the monotony of his life looming before him. He's already tired of the routine of practising by day and performing at night. Sometimes there's a girl in his bed, but it never lasts. _Work,_ he says, but he knows better.

 

 

(And sometimes, they know too.

_"Who's Henley?"_ one of them asks—he doesn't remember her name.

He starts, almost choking on his cereal. _"Why?"_ he asks, mind racing.

The faceless girl plays with her necklace, sorrow in her voice. " _You called me Henley last night_.")

 

 

It was different before, with someone to go up against, with someone to fight back and challenge him at every turn. He thrived on it. He ate it up. He _loved_ it. He never would've admitted it to her, but _he fucking loved it_. And now where is she? Shimmying out of a straight jacket in Portland? Pretending to drown in San Diego?

"Are you sure you're okay?" the voice comes again, distantly.

He's silent for a second. He thinks about how he fired Rebecca immediately after Henley quit, how he went solo and stayed solo. All because nothing could compare, after.

He refocuses his gaze on the girl in front of him. "Yeah, I'm fine," he lies.

 

 

♠

 

**3.**

"What are you doing?" he hisses at her. He hisses at her because he's an idiot, because he doesn't know how to be around her and not be a giant dick.

She glares back at him. "I'm not doing anything," she spits, her eyes lighting up with heat. "What are you even talking about?"

They're at the apartment in New York, gathering plans for the newest trick before meeting up with Merritt and Jack. It's one of the only times they've been alone together since the Horsemen have started up. They just made contact with Tressler and everything is going according to plan.

So why doesn't it feel that way?

"I mean you and Merritt. What are you doing?" he insists, leveling his gaze at her.

She gives him a look of pure dismissal. Her hands continue roving over the multitude of plans, gloves picking at sheafs of paper. "I don't even know what you're talking about, Danny. Come on, let's just get these blueprints and go—"

"I mean," he interrupts her, a breath away from closing his hand over hers to stop her in her tracks(—he doesn't do it, of course), "how you're shamelessly flirting with him. It's pretty heartless."

She piques her eyebrows at him. "What," she says, not a question, and her tone already spells doom for him.

And because he's an idiot, because _he's craving what she can dish out_ , he plows ahead. "I mean, it's pretty cruel of you to even entertain him. It can only end badly," he says, straightening out a stack, then looks her dead in the eye.

Her mouth curls up at a corner and her eyes shine with something sharp and edgy. This is the expression he lives for—the one he's dreamed about kissing back into the pillows over and over again. But he holds his place, his pulse rushing beneath his skin.

And then she sidesteps him entirely, chuckling—"Oh, Danny. You've always been so blind."

_What?_

She stands, looking down at him still crouched on the floor. The overhead light shines from behind her, setting her hair aglow. She tilts her head toward the door. "Come on, Jack and Merritt are waiting."

He feels as if his equilibrium has been thrown off. He throws her a confused look.

Her expression softens. She extends a gloved hand to him. "Danny, let's go."

He pretends to collect himself and grabs a bundle of papers that he knows they don't need—she must know as well, but she says nothing. "Right," he mutters, taking her hand. And it's stupid and almost certainly his imagination—she's wearing _gloves_ for godssakes—but he feels electricity spark across his palm and into his fingertips.

They leave, and she leads. Her strides are long and her chatter is mild, cheerful. She hails a cab effortlessly and they ride it all the way to Central Park, where they get out and meet Jack and Merritt on the other side of the footbridge. Merritt grins, Jack unfurls the blueprints and Henley jabs a finger at a point on the paper. When he's been quiet for too long, they notice and get on his case.

He says something to appease them for the moment, then as they all hone in on the same line, he takes his opening and looks at Henley.

He takes in the relaxed line of her shoulders, her radiant smile, her total and complete immersion in their project. She's beautiful when she's happy. But she's beautiful when she's angry, too. He wonders how he could've ever preferred one side of her to the other. But then, that's how they showed they cared, wasn't it? Getting under each other's skin, never giving in.

He keeps on looking at her and he has to wonder, _do you still care?_

 

 

♠

 

**4.**

It's probably a fever dream, his imagination getting away from him, but the night after Henley leaves (for the second time) he thinks he sees her in his bedroom.

He's been sneezing the whole week, a side effect of the ridiculous levels of A/C in the apartment. Merritt, Jack and Henley like it cool and overrule him three to one, regularly. (Well, with Henley gone he probably has a little more sway—)

Anyway, when Henley told them all that she was leaving, his immune system caved and sent him straight into tissue and cough syrup hell. Based on the bitching alone that Merritt and Jack have had to endure, the apartment will probably be kept at a toasty temperature for the next two weeks. (He refuses to acknowledge that the bitching could be for any other reason, even when he catches them rolling their eyes.)

He's the type to motor along when he's sick, chewing everything up like he usually does, only with a kleenex attached to his nose. Merritt constantly tells him it's gross, and Jack just kind of slips him some hand sanitizer and resolves to stay out of his way.

Henley though—she cooked. She tried at least. She's a pretty terrible cook, and the sight of her doing anything domestic is enough to set him on edge. But it was a nice gesture. In the end, all she could make him were grilled cheese sandwiches.

Which is why, when at 3 AM he smells a grilled cheese sandwich and something that might be chicken soup, he bolts up in bed.

She's bent over his bedside table, dressed in day clothes: a bomber jacket, skinny jeans and black pumps. She doesn't catch him staring until she's finished placing a bowl down—and when she does notice she's hardly bothered.

Her smile stretches naturally—as if she hadn't left him less than 48 hours ago—them, he means. "Hey, Danny."

He squints at her in the darkness. "Henley?" he asks, like he's twelve.

Her smile becomes tinged with melancholy. "Go back to sleep, Danny."

But then she's turning away, and he knows, even in his addled state that he can't just let her leave. "Henley, wait," he says. He rubs an eye.

She just shakes her head. He can feel her presence fading, like she's already thinking of being somewhere else.

He sits up more, feels the mucus hit his throat. His brain feels like it's floating in his stuffy skull. He's almost certainly dreaming her, because he knows she left. She packed a bag and disappeared with barely a look back, and since it's 3 AM he might as well admit to himself that it hurt. It felt... personal. It felt like she left him, _again_. He almost regressed to the point he was at a couple of years ago, wallowing in self-pity. He's traded the pity in for tissues, it seems. Either way, it's some form of misery.

Whether she's a dream or not, he's feverish enough to blurt out the first thing on his mind. It sounds like a plea because it is—"Henley, don't go."

Her gaze falls. He looks at her for a very long time, trying to memorize the arch of her neck and the fullness of her lips. As he does this, he feels his head hit the pillow and everything fuzzes over. Sickness and sleep finally claim him again.

Through the oncoming sleep, he hears—

" _Oh, Danny. I wish you'd said that sooner._ "

 

 

♠

 

**5.**

He forces his eyes to stay on her. Even after all this time in hiding, she burns as bright as she did that day in New York—hair streaming out behind her in a blind run, adrenalin rushing through all their veins, brilliant smile framed between parted red lips. Her exultation, her exhilaration—he'd never seen her so happy in all the years he'd known her. It's hard to keep his eyes on her, and at the same time it's hard to tear his gaze away.

"Is Merritt here, too?" she asks.

He swallows nothing. "That's all you have to say?"

She turns her gaze on him— _really looks at him_ —and says, pointedly, "How did you find me?"

"We asked the Eye to help us," he says, almost cutting her off, "we figured that since you asked them for a way out, they'd know where you were. Are."

She tips her chin up at him, narrowing her eyes.

"And here you are," he says, losing his fight, gaze falling.

"Right," she says, crossing her arms, "here I am. So, what do you want?"

_You,_ his stupid brain whispers, and he has to bite it back. Instead he says, against his better judgment, "I want to talk."

She raises an eyebrow. He remembers that she honed the skill over the years of knowing him—it was her go-to response to the majority of things he requested of her. _Henley, try the blue costume on, Henley, can you climb through this on your stomach, Henley, reconsider for a second about leaving the act_ —

Now, a touch playfully, almost like her old self, she says, "Well, you can talk anywhere."

"With you," he amends quickly, his hands starting to sweat from inside his pockets, "I want to talk with you."

She tilts her head at his expression. Then she turns around. "Come on," she says. She leads him not to the bay window, but to a large couch that looks barely sat upon. Once he sits, she chooses the cushion farthest from him, and waits.

He links his fingers in front of him. He tries not to think about how cold his hands are, how stiff she's being with him, how he's choked up and stopped so many times before. He has to say this. He has to.

With little ceremony, he says, "We miss you."

Her sharp intake of breath does not go unheard by him. In fact, it gives him some small measure of hope.

"You don't have to come back as a Horseman if you don't want to. You don't have to ever contact the Eye again," he promises her, leaning forward—leaning toward her, sitting prim and proper, so far away. "We just miss having you around."

She gulps a little. Her fingers are linked, too—and he realizes that she's not wearing gloves. Her hands are well-cared for, her nails cut to the quick.

He looks back up at her face. "Say something."

Finally, she looks at him. But he can already tell that her answer is not one he wants to hear. He can read it in the turn of her mouth and the emptiness of her eyes. And then she delivers—"Danny, I had such a hard time leaving you all. I don't think I can—I couldn't just join up again."

"You don't have to," he tells her, biting at the end of her sentence, and he feels himself slipping back into his bad habit of talking too fast. "That's what I've been saying. You don't have to join the Horsemen again, please just come back to—to..." he trails off, fearing how he wants to end the sentence.

( _To me._ )

A long silence falls between them then, with him linking and relinking his fingers, and her staring into the distance. He knows she's forming a thought, and he wants to be patient, but there's so much energy, so much feeling bottled up in him at seeing her again that it's hard to wait.

She stands up. Alarmed, he stands up too.

But then she walks over to him. "I meant that I had a hard time leaving you."

She steals his breath away. He can't speak. He wants to know what she means—but then, he already knows, doesn't he?

And suddenly, there is so much conflict and sadness and longing in her eyes that he's afraid he might drown in it. "I'm sorry, Danny. It's just too little, too late," she whispers. Then she kisses him, feather-light, on the cheek. Her scent envelops him and he finds himself remembering it in echoes of memories—when they snuck into the armored truck, when they climbed onto the merry-go-round in Central Park. He doesn't want it to exist in only his memories.

When she pulls back, her eyes are dry but his are wet.

"Henley," he pleads, not even bothering to blink away his tears.

She takes a firm, gentle hold on his shoulders. "Tell Merritt and Jack that I say hi," she sighs, and maybe it's his hearing but he swears her voice breaks just a bit.

She walks around him, and away, leaving him standing there.

And then—swallowing his pride—he decides that he'll be damned if he lets her walk away from him. Their whole relationship has been him wanting her, endlessly, and being too foolish to just say so.

"No," he says, whipping around. "No, I'm not letting you walk away from me again."

She stops mid-stride. "There's a reason I did it. Twice," she says, not turning back around.

"I know, I know," he says, and his voice is decidedly pleading, but it doesn't matter because she needs to know—"Because twice, your talent wasn't acknowledged. First, by me, and then by the Eye. You don't deserve to wait around, I know—"

"No, you don't!" she interrupts him, her voice piercing the air, sharp and loud despite the fact that she still won't face him. Her voice trembles. "You have no idea, Danny."

He gulps. He inhales. "So tell me," he says simply.

She waves a hand, dismissive: _as if you would understand._

His head bows and he stares at his shoes. "Please," he says. It might be the only time he's said the word sincerely, insufferable prick that he is.

And Henley seems to know this, because she finally turns around. Her eyes are fiercely glistening with tears unshed. She raises a hand, brushes them away before they have a chance to fall. Her voice is edged with frustration and exhaustion and heartache—"Because everything I love doesn't love me back, and I'm sick of it."

His throat dries, his stomach bottoms out and his heart stops. One thought reverberates in his head—

_All this time?_

She pulls him back. "So there's your answer," she says, waving a hand with a half-hearted flourish— _abra-fucking-cadabra_. "You win. As ever." She shoots him a half-hearted Look, all disappointment and hurt and  _forget-it-I'm getting out of here_. She turns to leave, and he's clearly been dismissed.

_Except._ Except he's selfish. He's so, so selfish and he needs to say this to her, needs her to hear it, finally. He's been a coward this entire time, stopping himself short, holding the words back. So he calls to her, "I don't, Henley"—an awkward pause, during which her stride falters—"win, that is."

She shoots him another look over her shoulder. "And what a tragedy that is," she says hoarsely, as if this interaction has taken everything out of her. It probably has. She's done with him, and she deserves to be let go, deserves to go back to leading the life she's chosen.

But he's selfish. He believes he knows better.  So now, when she's given up on him completely, he'll pull her back against her will—"The only tragedy is us. Two people who want to be together, stopping themselves from doing so."

Her stare is searing.

He won't stop. Not until he's said it all. His heart pumps his blood doubly, and he feels the thrill of what he's about to do hit him. He looks her right in the eye and throws his arms out. "I love you. And you love me. I don't see any other tragedy than us."

Her jaw drops and her gaze turns incredulous, accusing: _how dare you say that, how dare you, how dare you_ —"It's not that easy, Danny."

"Who says?" he whips out quickly, taking one, cautious step toward her. She doesn't bolt, and instantly he knows. "Who says that this needs to be complicated?"

"It just _is_! _God_ , haven't you been paying attention?" She's furious, her anger turning her cheeks a pretty pink. She has a point—if this is a love story, it's been a long time coming. But given a choice, this is the one he'd want—frustrating and convoluted and  _perfect_. Perfect.

He takes another few steps, never breaking his gaze. Then a few more. She tracks him with her eyes, and in their depths he sees fright and fury—and anticipation.

Then he's in front of her, and he's putting his palm to her cheek. Her eyelids flutter shut. Softly, he says to her, "Not enough attention, I'm afraid." He's breathing hard, but he doesn't have the room to be embarrassed about it.

After what feels like hours, but he knows must only be moments, she looks up at him from beneath her eyelashes. All the tension has left her body. She leans into his hand. She's looking at him, and for once he has the courage to look right back, _really_ look.

And he doesn't know if she'll come back to them. But he knows one thing—she loves him, too. And that's more than enough.

"You're such an asshole," she whispers resignedly, leaning further into his hand.

He takes another step closer, fully invading her space, aligning their torsos. "I know," he says.

And then he does what he's been dreaming about for years—and kisses her.

 

.

.

.

 

The unadulterated happiness on all of their faces is almost better than the fact that he's standing in the doorway with Henley.

_Almost._

"Oh my God," Jack says, looking over his shoulder from his spot on the couch.

" _I fucking knew it_!" Lula hollers victoriously, promptly jumping over the sofa and launching herself at him and Henley. She's progressed to just swearing heartily at the top of her lungs and bear-hugging the two of them. " _I am so happy for you guys_!" she crows.

Merritt, from his spot on the armchair, smiles and applauds. "Congrats, you crazy kids."

Next to him, Henley is rolling her eyes good-naturedly. She's packed a duffel for the time being, and Lula pulls them both over the threshold, grabbing the bag from Henley with the energy of a manic puppy.

He feels himself on the edge of a blush and promptly squashes it by clearing his throat. For once, he's at a loss for words.

But then Henley speaks up, her voice coy and her eyes lit up with mischief—and _God, he loves her, he really does_ —

"Got room for another Horseman?"

 

♥

 

_—fin_


End file.
